


That's No Way to Treat an Heirloom

by rainybookshopspoetry



Series: Snitches Get Stitches [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking, First Time, Getting Together, M/M, My Apologies to Lucius Malfoy's Desk, sleepover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-02-28 04:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18749431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainybookshopspoetry/pseuds/rainybookshopspoetry
Summary: Harry’s pretty sure he’s about to kiss Malfoy, here, tipsy from Firewhiskey in his father’s study, and he feels a surprising lack of horror about it.





	That's No Way to Treat an Heirloom

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read either as a prequel to "Squealing Snitches" or on its own. And uh, don't try this at home folks.

Everything would have been different if Harry hadn't gone to return Malfoy’s wand the same day that Lucius Malfoy was sent to start his fifteen-year sentence in Azkaban.

Of course, Harry isn’t aware of this at the time, as he makes his way up the Malfoys’ stupidly long drive one surprisingly cool Thursday afternoon in August.

A daintily dressed house elf answers the door within three seconds of his knock and, though she must be, she shows no sign of being surprised to see him.

“Mister Potter,” she chirps with a polite incline of her head, her large ears bobbing slightly. “I is called Ipsy, how may I be helping you today?”

“Er,” Harry begins, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt and wondering, for the millionth time, why he didn't just Owl Malfoy's wand back to him. “I have something to return to Mal – er, Draco, if he’s here.”

There’s a muffled crash from somewhere below, and Ipsy narrows her eyes almost imperceptibly.

“Master Draco is being here,” she begins resignedly. “But Master Draco is being unavailable to see guests at the moment. But Ipsy can be taking Mister Potter’s item and giving it to Master Draco at a…” she falters slightly “…a more prudent time.”

Harry’s opening his mouth to reply – and wondering why, exactly, he’s reluctant to accept her offer – when he hears the sound of approaching footsteps and Malfoy appears at the top of the illustrious staircase leading down to the lower levels. He’s impeccably dressed, right down to the leather loafers on his feet, but his blond hair is also ruffled slightly, there’s a pink flush to his pale cheeks, and the – no doubt ludicrously expensive – jumper he’s wearing is rumpled, the dress shirt underneath it carelessly untucked.

“Potter,” Malfoy exclaims in surprise, slightly louder than necessary, and out of the corner of his eye, Harry catches Ipsy’s frown.

“Malfoy,” he replies, as the other boy joins them in the entranceway and crosses his arms. “I, er, have your wand, to give back,” he explains.

Malfoy sways, just slightly, and Harry narrows his eyes as a thought occurs to him.

“Malfoy,” he begins, “are you drunk?”

“Mister Potter is being able to leave now,” Ipsy begins, but Malfoy waves her off.

“That will be all, Ipsy,” he says, sounding perfectly condescending despite the slight slur Harry can now make out in his words, and she vanishes with a pop that manages to sound disapproving, somehow. “And no, Potter, I am not _drunk_ ,” he spits out, attempting futilely to smooth down his hair. “I have just been indulging in some of Father’s Firewhiskey on acc – _hic_ \- account of him being shipped off to Azkaban today,” he finishes, and Harry feels his stomach clench at the words. “Now, are you going to give me back my wand or just stand there gaping like a fish?” he demands, holding out an elegant hand imperiously, although the gesture is rather undercut by the way he seems to be having trouble focusing on Harry’s face.

The words are out of Harry ‘s mouth before he can stop them. “Do you want company?” he asks.

Malfoy stares at him incredulously. He looks like he's tossing around a number of undoubtedly scathing replies, but what he comes out with is, “Can you even hold your alcohol, Potter?”

Harry chooses not to point out the irony of that question as Malfoy none-too-subtly leans against the wall for support. Besides the handful of pub nights he’s had with Ron and Hermione this summer and the horrifically bad hangover he had after the older Weasley boys took him out for his birthday last month, he isn't really one for drinking, but the thought of leaving Malfoy alone in this state makes guilt coil uncomfortably in his stomach. So he squares his shoulders, meets Malfoy's gaze, and gestures for him to lead the way.

***

Harry's already questioning the wisdom of his decision when Malfoy leads them into what is clearly Lucius Malfoy's study, which is cold enough to make Harry shiver despite the fire roaring in the grate. Portraits of peacocks, the Malfoy family crest, and a large shelf of clearly illegal potions ingredients - including what looks disconcertingly like a set of dismembered house-elf feet - adorn the walls, while an oversized, ebony Victorian desk takes up one half of the room. Malfoy sprawls in an elegant tangle of limbs on an enormous leather sofa Harry's certain costs more than the Dursley's entire house, next to a three-quarters full bottle of the most expensive bottle of Firewhiskey that Harry has ever seen. Malfoy Accios 2 crystal goblets from somewhere- judging from a disembodied yelp above them, probably from the kitchen - pours them both a generous helping with surprisingly steady hands, and raises his glass sardonically.

"To my father," he drawls, and Harry winces internally at the way Malfoy's voice cracks slightly on the last word. "May he rot in Azkaban," he finishes bitterly, clinking his glass with Harry's and taking a generous swig. Harry follows suit and immediately feels his eyes water as it burns down his throat. He scowls when his vision clears to reveal Malfoy regarding him smugly, eyes completely dry. 

"To your father," Harry begins. "May he never hear about this."

Malfoy stares at him in shock for a moment before huffing a disbelieving laugh, glancing over at Harry and trying vainly to bite down on a tiny, rueful smile. 

"Hear hear," Malfoy adds, leaning over to clink his glass with Harry's again.

*** 

Harry’s been surreptitiously adding water to Malfoy’s glass in addition to snagging most of the Firewhiskey to himself when Malfoy’s not looking, but while it’s allowed Malfoy to stop hiccupping, it also seems to have had the unintended effect of rendering Harry rather tipsy, as well. Which has inexplicably resulted in the two of them sitting on the floor of Lucius Malfoy’s study, giggling and making increasingly insulting impressions of Filch. Malfoy's jumper has been abandoned in a crumpled heap on the floor, he keeps gesturing emphatically with his hands, and Harry thinks he might be staring at him, just a little. 

It's just - he's never seen Malfoy like this, relaxed and open and smiling, and he's feeling comfortably tingly and warm, the sharp taste of the Firewhiskey lingering pleasantly on his tongue.

"Students out of bed!" Malfoy cries, in a crude but astoundingly accurate imitation of Filch, shaking his free hand in mock-rage. "STUDENTS IN THE CORRIDOR!" he roars, affecting an exaggerated eye-twitch that has Harry doubled over with laughter. "I think he might cry if I finish school without him ever having the chance to hang me from the ceiling by my thumbs," Malfoy adds thoughtfully, sending them both off into giggles again. 

Harry's dimly aware of the fact that he can’t seem to stop staring at Malfoy’s mouth, and he’s not sure how, but they seem to be sitting closer together than they were just a minute ago.

"I might have taken that over our detention in the Forbidden Forest in first year," Harry says honestly, and Malfoy nods in agreement, his gaze fixed on Harry. He isn't sure why, but the room suddenly feels hotter than it was a moment ago, and when Malfoy licks his lips, Harry can't stop the way his gaze drops to his mouth. 

Harry’s pretty sure he’s about to kiss Malfoy, here, tipsy from Firewhiskey in his father’s study, and he feels a surprising lack of horror about it. Maybe, he thinks as he reaches up to cradle Malfoy's face in one hand, maybe he’ll just panic about it later. And maybe, he tells himself as Malfoy exhales shakily, eyes fluttering shut for a moment at the contact, maybe later he’ll remember that the idea of him being attracted to Malfoy is equal parts ridiculous and wrong. Maybe, he thinks, staring into grey eyes that look scared and vulnerable and the tiniest bit hopeful, maybe this is all due to the Firewhiskey and it doesn’t mean anything at all that his heart is beating wildly in his chest and he suddenly can’t seem to breathe. And then it doesn’t matter, because Malfoy sways towards him, just slightly, and Harry can’t help but lean forwards and kiss him.

Malfoy holds absolutely still for a moment before tentatively kissing back, tasting of Firewhiskey and Fizzing Whizbees and, inexplicably, chocolate frogs. Then Harry presses closer, and Malfoy tangles one of his hands in Harry’s hair, and all of a sudden they’re kissing so enthusiastically Harry’s head is spinning.

He feels like he’s drowning. It’s nothing like kissing Cho - honestly though, being cried on mid-snog is an experience he'd really rather not repeat - but it’s not exactly like kissing Ginny either. That was a euphoric rush, high off of Quidditch victory and a moment of bravery and then elation that the girl he fancied seemed to want him right back. This is – an electric current he can feel all the way down to his toes, a head rush he really doesn’t think has anything to do with the Firewhiskey, and the realization that this might be the stupidest, most reckless, most brilliant thing he’s ever done.

At some point, Malfoy has climbed onto his lap and stuck his tongue in Harry’s mouth, and Harry doesn’t even realize he’s undone the first couple of buttons on Malfoy’s shirt until Malfoy pulls back, a questioning look on his face.

Harry really has no idea what to do here. He thinks maybe he’s crossed some invisible line, because snogging your long-time rival after consuming a large amount of Firewhiskey is one thing, but undressing them is probably a lot harder to explain away when you’re sober. But Malfoy just exhales a shaky breath, fixes Harry with a piercing gaze that suddenly looks a lot less hazy, and asks, “Are you sure?”

Harry has no idea how to answer that. He’s never done this before, and there are about five hundred reasons why he thinks Malfoy is an arrogant, pompous git, and another five hundred why this shouldn’t be happening. But he can’t take his eyes off the few inches of pale chest Malfoy’s open shirt has exposed, or the dark pink flush that’s crept into his cheeks, and he can’t ignore the way his lips won’t stop tingling. So he nods, once, twice, and pulls Malfoy back in.

He clumsily works his way through the rest of Malfoy’s buttons as Malfoy insistently tugs Harry’s t-shirt over his head, and Harry can't help but groan at the feeling of skin-on-skin contact. Then Harry leans down to press open-mouthed kisses to Malfoy's neck, relishing in the way Malfoy melts, and he moves to tug Malfoy down on top him, but Malfoy promptly freezes.

"I am absolutely  _not_ lying down on this carpet," Malfoy mutters as he stands, tugging Harry up with him. 

Malfoy eyes the colossal ebony desk speculatively, and Harry - he has a bad feeling about this. It's not like Lucius Malfoy would ever find out, but he can't help thinking it might be bad form to be snogging the son of a man who tried to have him murdered at least a dozen times on top of said man's desk, which looks like it might actually be older than Hogwarts.

But then he looks over at Malfoy, who's perched himself on the edge of the desk, pale skin gleaming in the firelight. He lifts one eyebrow challengingly, daring Harry to follow, and Harry's helpless to do anything but surge forward to kiss him again. They fall backward in a tangle of limbs, and Harry's certain he's going to have a horrific bruise on his knee from attempting to clamber onto the desk and undo Malfoy's trousers at the same time, but between the way Malfoy arches up when Harry kisses over his pulse point and the intoxicating feeling of Malfoy raking his fingernails down his back, Harry can't find it in himself to care.

Harry’s pretty sure he’s about to shag Malfoy now, here on Lucius Malfoy’s desk, of all places, and his only thought at this point is he hopes he won’t be absolute rubbish at it.

(Judging by the litany of increasingly inventive swear words that pour out of Malfoy's mouth, he isn't). 

***

Harry's still lying next to Malfoy on the desk, catching his breath and sending a silent prayer of thanks that the ancient wood is a lot stronger than it looks, when Malfoy sits up and pokes him - painfully - in the ribs. "Malfoys do not sleep anywhere but in a bed,” Draco informs him in what Harry assumes is supposed to be a lofty tone, and takes hold of his arm.

When they arrive in a gigantic, ostentatious, and admittedly gorgeous bedroom, Harry whirls around to face Malfoy accusatorially. “What the fuck, Malfoy? We could’ve been splinched!”

Malfoy shrugs unapologetically. “It’s not like I’m going to get splinched by Apparating in my own house,” he retorts, heading straight for the elegant, King-sized bed. Harry’s opening his mouth to counter the ridiculousness of that statement – he’s heard enough about Apparition accidents from Percy to last him a lifetime, honestly – when he takes in the sight of Draco, naked and waiting for him under a mountain of luxurious-looking sheets, and wisely shuts up.

If Malfoy pretends - badly - to accidentally snuggle Harry in his sleep, well, it's not like he minds. 

 ***

Harry’s woken up a few hours later by several too-bright rays of harsh early morning sunlight, with what promises to be a horrible headache beginning to pound at his temples. His muscles ache, his throat is raw, and he’s so entangled with both Malfoy and the sheets he’s pretty sure he couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

The thing is, though, is that for all he feels like he might have actually died and come back a second time, he doesn’t really want to move. Not when Malfoy has a pale, surprisingly strong arm wrapped snugly around him and a long leg tossed carelessly over his, and not when Malfoy's so close Harry can see the tiny, pale freckles that are scattered across his cheekbones.

Then, of course, Malfoy yawns sleepily, opens his eyes, and promptly goes tense with what seems to be poorly-concealed panic.

“Potter,” he begins, and Harry tactfully ignores the way Malfoy’s voice cracks on his name. “Um,” he continues, sitting up and wrapping the sheet around himself defensively, “I expect there’s no need to discuss this, yes?” he asks stiffly, gaze fixed determinedly in his lap.

“Er,” Harry begins, feeling both rather groggy and exceptionally wrong-footed.

“It was just the Firewhiskey,” Malfoy continues, apparently ignoring him. “We were reckless and drunk and…” he pauses once, swallowing. “And it was a mistake. So I’ll just go and take a shower, and you can get dressed and…” Malfoy nods once to himself and makes to get up.

Harry’s not entirely sure what he wants to happen, exactly, except that this feels stilted and awkward and he was rather enjoying the coziness of a few moments ago. And it feels wrong to just – leave, and write it all off as a drunken indiscretion. He has no idea what the protocol is for the morning after with the boy you thought you hated your entire life and, it turns out, have probably also been madly attracted to the entire time, but he’s pretty sure this isn’t it.

It’s also glaringly obvious that Malfoy hasn’t looked him in the eyes once this morning, and suddenly Harry can’t stand it.

“Malfoy,” he blurts out, but when Draco finally, finally looks at him, Harry finds that any of the words he might’ve said dry up in his throat. He gazes helplessly for a second at Malfoy’s guarded expression, at the way he’s got the sheet wrapped around him as though Harry hasn’t already seen everything under it, at the bruise that stands out almost obscenely just below Malfoy’s collarbone, and then he’s moving before he has a chance to talk himself out of it.

Harry leans forwards to place a sloppy kiss on Malfoy’s lips, clacking their teeth together in his haste and nearly missing his mouth entirely, and he abruptly pulls back in mortification. Malfoy stares at him for a moment, grey eyes wide and mouth open, before he makes a desperate noise in his throat and lunges across the bed to kiss Harry again. They fall backwards in a tangle of limbs, kissing hungrily and carelessly shoving the sheets out of the way, awkwardness and hangovers forgotten.

 ***

When he wakes again, he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of Ipsy hovering at the foot of the bed and looking positively gleeful. She snaps her fingers and Draco stirs into reluctant wakefulness at the sound before yelping and pulling the sheets up over the two of them.

“Ipsy! For Merlin’s sake,” he squawks, but she waves him off, ears flapping imperiously.

“Mistress Narcissa is requesting that Mister Potter and Master Draco be joining her for brunch,” she informs them with a hint of smugness. As she turns to leave, she adds off-handedly, “And the Mistress is asking that Mister Potter and Master Draco confine any future recreational activities to Master Draco's bedroom."

Malfoy wordlessly drops his face into his hands, and Harry gulps. After taking a deep, fortifying breath, Malfoy Accios them their clothes, and they dress in silence; Harry tries futilely to pat down his hair, and they share a commiserating look of dread. He isn't scared of Narcissa Malfoy, exactly, but he does have the feeling that he's in for a rather severe talking-to, and the way Malfoy's face has paled isn't exactly inspiring confidence. 

He and Malfoy descend the wide marble staircase to the dining room with the air of condemned men walking to their doom. 

"Good morning, gentlemen," Narcissa greets them from the head of a long table that's set with an array of sumptuous-looking breakfast dishes. "Do sit down," she adds, as two house-elves silently pull out the two chairs closest to her.

Harry slides awkwardly into the high-backed chair, pulling a pristine white linen napkin into his lap and trying not to look alarmed by the sheer amount of silverware on either side of his plate.

“That will be all, Ipsy,” she adds, and the house-elf’s gleeful expression slips slightly before she nods and retreats, ears flopping dejectedly. The other two house-elves follow soundlessly, leaving the three of them alone in the opulent dining room.

There’s a moment of rather strained silence. Then Narcissa nods almost imperceptibly at the various plates in front of them, and Harry takes a fortifying breath, studiously avoids Malfoy’s eyes, and helps himself to some tea and scones. Before he can reach for the sugar bowl, Malfoy passes it to him wordlessly, taking the milk for himself and sliding the fresh-squeezed lemon juice across to Harry in the same movement. Taken aback slightly, Harry’s can’t help but stare at Malfoy, who bites his lip and abruptly busies himself with his breakfast, the tips of his ears stained a vivid pink.   

“I trust you slept well?” Narcissa asks innocently, bringing Harry back to the present moment. Harry chances a glance over at Malfoy, who still appears to be fascinated with his cup of coffee, and groans internally. Trust him to just leave Harry to fend for himself.

“Er, yeah, we did,” Harry responds without thinking, and then immediately wants to punch himself. Futilely trying to ignore the flush rising in his cheeks, he asks, “And you?”

“Oh, just fine,” she responds demurely, although Harry has the very distinct impression, despite her well-rested appearance, that she isn’t quite telling the truth. He takes a bite of his scone and fervently hopes that Narcissa’s bedroom is located on the opposite side of the Manor from Malfoy’s.

“How is Aunt Andromeda?” Draco asks, attempting a lofty tone and missing by about a mile.

“I was visiting my sister yesterday evening,” Narcissa explains for Harry’s benefit. “She’s well,” she adds, and this time a small, genuine smile graces her face. “She has her hands full with your cousin Teddy - he managed to turn the tips of his hair blond by the end of the night.”

“Did he?” Harry asks delightedly. “Last time I was there I could swear he was making his hair stick up more than usual."

Malfoy sniggers into his coffee and then tries to cover it up with a cough. Narcissa’s lips quirk up slightly at the corners, and for a moment there’s a more companionable silence as they all dig into a meal that could rival even the most lavish of the Hogwarts feasts.

Then Narcissa takes a delicate sip of her tea and focuses sharp, crystal-blue eyes on Harry again.

"And how did you find Draco's wand?" she inquires politely, and Harry nearly chokes on his tea. "Were you able to perform spells adequately?

"Oh - er, yes. Actually," Harry responds, trying to pull himself together. "It worked nearly as well as my old one - loads better than Hermione's, and I think I might've set something on fire if I tried to use Ron's again."

"Did it now?" Narcissa responds neutrally, and though her face is as impassive as ever, Harry gets the distinct impression that she's trying not to smile.

When Harry glances over at Malfoy, there's a hint of pink high in his cheeks, but he just continues eating his scones with an effortless grace Harry will never hope to emulate. 

A minute later though, he feels Malfoy's foot come to rest tentatively on his own under the table, and this time it's Harry who has to bite down on a smile. 

The remainder of breakfast passes without any other mortifying incidents - although Harry has a strong inkling, based on the amused smirks Malfoy’s been sending him, that he hasn’t used the correct spoon once. Then Narcissa insists on seeing him out, Malfoy trailing slightly behind and making an admirable attempt at a nonchalant expression.

"We'll be seeing you soon, Mister Potter," she tells him, and although her tone is courteous, Harry gets the distinct impression that it's not a request he can refuse.

But, glancing over at Malfoy - who hasn't stopped blushing once all morning, who is funny and clever and captivating when he's not being an absolute prat (and maybe even when he is), and who kisses him with a kind of desperation that suggests he's been thinking about it for _years -_ Harry can't say that he wants to. 


End file.
